


Fault Lines

by Leonia42



Series: A Violet in a Snowstorm [7]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Backstory, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Heavensward, Holy See of Ishgard, M/M, Romance, Stormblood, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 18:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15125786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leonia42/pseuds/Leonia42
Summary: Aymeric is a man laden with too many burdens, the people of Ishgard treat him no differently than a king while at the same time expecting him to be the opposite. As they are free to pursue a steadfast course into the future, he is fettered down by the mistakes of his past. It falls to Venice, the saviour of nations, the slayer of primals, to try and save the man she loves from himself.[Still takes place sometime after 4.1, still likely contains spoilers of some fashion]





	Fault Lines

Some days, Aymeric thought he was at the end of his wits. Regardless of his attempts to the contrary, it didn’t feel like the people actually wanted to reap the benefits of peace and progress.

Despite its gruesome nature, combat was an honest means to asserting one’s point of view; there was no quibbling over semantics in the theatre of war where the battlelines were clear, the uniforms reducing one’s need to question their purpose in the greater scheme of things. Soldiers could fulfill their orders admirably, asking them to think for themselves was akin to inviting a heretic to a blessing.

In the absence of a common enemy, the returning Ishgardian forces fell back on old habits: fighting amongst themselves. For what else could they do? They were no longer obligated to pit themselves against the dragons, the Garleans had not proven to be a fearsome foe in their stead. Were they to take up stable, honest work that did not come attached with the risk of an early death? Where was the glory in that.

Though he was grateful for the lack of prolonged bloodshed, he could not have anticipated that the temporary unity afforded by the joint military action in the East would come to a conclusion as readily as it had. Not everyone was willing to give domestic change the chance it needed to take root. Those few who were, knew not what to do other than demand that one system be replaced with another, the idea of compromise too convoluted to appreciate.

Most days were like herding coeurls, he could only be in so many places at once and his people were a proud, stubborn lot. It would not be long before he reached the limits of his patience. Even his staunchest supporters were at a loss as to how to proceed, always looking to him to come up with the answers. He tried to nudge them in a positive direction but he could not, _would_ not dictate what ought to be done.

The trouble was, some misinterpreted his reservedness as a deficiency in his authority. If he could not enforce his will, then perhaps he wasn’t so powerful and while he would have pointed out that that was the entire point, that the people should hold themselves to account, it was often as if he was speaking in an entirely different language than everyone else. Politics was supposedly an old man’s game but there was nobody he could count on to take his place. So it went, on and on, more obligations piling up as old business was addressed to be replaced by new, more complicated matters.

There was a measure of relief in the efforts Venice and Estinien had made against the unrepentant heretics and their poaching network in Dravania, reducing the threat posed to their budding dragonian allies which in turn granted safety to settlers looking to begin anew outside the city walls. To that end, the Inquisition was not happy about being robbed of another opportunity to demonstrate their abilities. The Temple Knights were stretched thin despite the lack of dragon quelling, heretic interference, and whatever else needed looking after in Coerthas but the gaps were not so easily filled by their inquisitor counterparts.

On the contrary, unsavoury factions like those akin to the True Brothers had been recruited to pursue a new agenda. They were not focused on the ousting of foreign heretics which freely roamed the streets, rather the concept of conversion and spreading the faith to the dubious, the most vulnerable became more palpable. The only thing worse than a heretic that believed in other gods was one that did not believe in anything, like the Garlean menace that waited in the shadows for their moment of reprisal. 

Less problems arose from outside the city walls than from within. Those wearing the prominent robes of blue and gold made sure everyone recognised the fact, quietly downplaying the few successes of the Temple Knights and reminding all who would listen that they were the last vanguard against corruption in all its various forms. They openly questioned the Houses persistent delays in forming an opposition strategy against Garlemald, turning the conversation steadily away from their own past errors in judgement, doing whatever they could to remain relevant and necessary in the new order.

Change was terrifying, whether it led to positive outcomes or not. Uncertainty alone created havoc in the minds of the restless populace. The Inquisition championed a familiar status quo, offering a stable, patient alternative. Aymeric could not begrudge them for working within the law even if they were likely skirting it somewhere unseen. Without proof, it was better not to voice an opinion. Neutrality became his refuge though many saw such compromise as weakness.

Though it was not a matter of public record what had transpired in the Vault, the Warrior of Light’s injuries were not so easily concealed. The growing resentment against the Garlean Empire worked to her advantage, not many citizens were overly concerned about the godslayer’s personal wellbeing with other matters on their minds. Normally the lack of respect would have grated at him but he did not wish to draw further attention to either her or Lucia if at all possible. Ensuring Venice’s recovery was one of the few problems he still possessed enough influence to resolve. There was nothing quite like a brush with mortality to put everything else back into perspective.

He genuinely enjoyed the task, unlike so many others that plagued him from day-to-day. The experience was altogether new and refreshing, he finally had something to actively look forward to after long bells spent delivering speeches or locked within contentious debates alongside nobles about topics that did not necessarily pertain to their respective interests.

Where he once would have preferred the solitary respite within the large confines of his often silent home, he was instead greeted by the delightful presence of not one but two of his dearest friends.

Venice had elected to stay at his once the antidote from Doma had been shown to work, the healers saw no need to retain a patient who merely needed sufficient bedrest. To their mutual surprise, Estinien had also chosen to stick around, swearing to keep guard over Venice until he saw her fit for combat. He suspected he had given into a whiff of nostalgia, walking amongst the capital again and though he spoke little of his time since leaving, he knew the dragoon had some recovery of his own left to finish.

The usual business of the day was left beyond the doorstep as he entered into another, uplifting world free of the drudgery and the conflicts which demanded his attention so often. Instead, the manor was full of laughter and song thanks to a lute which Venice had procured from foreign markets, having it delivered from Limsa Lominsa through her network of adventuring contacts. The instrument was of fine craftsmanship, made of rosewood with horsehair strings imported from Yanxia, he knew not how she could afford the beautiful object but he was grateful for the quality of music it produced in her hands.

Three warriors, three friends, three Ishgardians who had been shaped by the final refrain of the final chorus of the Dragonsong War, at last able to enjoy the peace they had been instrumental in bringing about. He wished he could have bottled up those memories to save for later, knowing too well that they were fleeting.

Venice’s recovery went well enough though she relied heavily on the other two to help recondition herself into a fit state. Her mood remained upbeat but she was not content to lose her independence, no matter how brief. The poison had left behind a wasting sickness in her limbs, forcing her to relearn skeletal memory that she had taken for granted. Given her fitness level beforehand, she was at no grave disadvantage compared to the average soldier but there was nothing ordinary about the Warrior of Light or her need to be in peak condition.

Every evening, they would sit together in the lounge room, engaged in intimate fellowship, telling stories, thinking about matters that did not put their lives in peril. They all knew the relief was short-lived, none of them wasted it though they did struggle to make sense of the spates of boredom. Estinien was overjoyed once Venice could get around on her own, anxious to test her sapped strength in the training yards.

It had never been Aymeric’s intention to have so many matters on his plate at once, he would have given up so much to enjoy the spoils of his labours. To give up everything, to live for others, that was the compact of leadership. It was the legacy, tainted as it was, that he had inherited and would pass on to the next in line in the far future. His life for Ishgard.

By the Fury, he needed the few respites in between, he needed Venice’s ceaseless smile and Estinien’s crude humour. He needed to be surrounded not just by loyal officers that could pull their own weight but also by those who loved him, even if neither knew how to say the words out loud. So much of his time was wasted by faux admirers or pledges of support that amounted to nothing substantial, his reputation confused for his personal happiness. Too often he forgot to look after himself.

It was a wonder the three of them did not spend the remainder of their lives wallowing in despair. Venice had a big heart, when she loved someone it was completely. Her losses took away pieces that she’d never recover. Estinien’s losses had turned him literally into a monster. Aymeric hoped his own attempts to suppress his hurts were sufficient, no need to bother the other two who were burdened enough.

He did his best not to bring his work home but one night he failed miserably in that regard, having skipped dinner to get ahead of what promised to be another long day of endless administrative tasks, just as the day before the present had been and so forth. Everyone, highborn and lowborn alike, needed his approval, to be seen interacting with Ishgard’s highest profile diplomat, whether their requests were relevant to his agenda or not. It hardly mattered what he wanted, they had grown accustomed to his confidence, trusting in his unassailable judgement. Not so long ago in another life, they had given the bastard from the Brume a wide berth, keeping his thoughts and opinions safely away at a comfortable distance. The irony was not lost on him.

He emerged from the darkened study, bleary-eyed, stifling an incoming headache, rubbing at the ink stains under his nails, the scent of melted candle wax permeating against the woollen housecoat, the hour much later than he would have wished. In the main room, he found Estinien lazily flicking through Venice’s notebooks while she snuggled up against him all but spent from another day of intense physical training. By some small mercy, the dragoon had found a quiet way to pass the time rather than attempting to abuse the three basic chords which Venice had optimistically tried to teach him on the lute; no Elezen had a right to be so tone deaf.

An unbidden yawn alerted Estinien to his approach, he looked up expectantly, waiting for his comrade to free him from Venice’s slumbering form. Aymeric found himself momentarily perplexed, the woman he loved sheltered by the man who could never find it within himself to love him back, a literal intermingling of past and present. He wanted to apologise for wasting their evening but he had no energy to do so, he had already spent too many bells writing lengthy apologies to people he barely knew, trying to rectify the faults of those who had come before, the future so far away that it might as well not exist at all.

Free of the nightmares that had previously disjointed her sleep, Venice looked her most calm and serene. He didn’t wish to disturb her. Gently he separated her from Estinien, one supportive arm just below her shoulder blades, the other under her knees. She stirred in his arms slightly, her cheek pressed delicately against his heart. Though Venice weighed a couple ponzes more than Estinien, it was of no consequence. He could have held her close indefinitely, with insatiable tenderness, without fear of her bleeding out, the slow rising of her chest against his own soothing his weary soul. 

“You smell nice,” Venice babbled semi-coherently in her sleep.

“What is that, peppermint oil?” Estinien enquired without looking up, rubbing vigorously at his leg which Venice had rendered to pins and needles.

Aymeric was slightly surprised either could make out the scent. He had thought to use the bottle as a salve for his frustrations, having opened it only briefly to remind himself of the smell contained within. In actual effect, he had reminded himself why he dealt with the neverending tides of responsibility, waves he had to find a means to stay above lest they devour their unsuspecting victim. The peppermint liqueur had been gifted to him by Haurchefant on one of his somber namedays in the past, a symbol of the future they had both wanted to create.

Namedays had always been brutal, forcing him to recall all the strife he had endured since the last, the melancholy reflections on his improbable origins, the missing of his mother and, to a lesser extent, the presence of his father, wondering what he’d ever amount to, a relentless reminder that he did not fit in anywhere. Haurchefant could never abide by such ill-weathered recollections, he knew not how he had come by the rare alcoholic beverage again.

Back when they were still in their youthful recruitment years, they had made a variety of vows to one another. One night, by sheer chance, they had come across a sweet, clean smelling drop that neither of the young men could resist, likely it had been an unwanted leftover from a foreign merchant that had been turned away at the border with his goods confiscated for one reason or another.

They took turns drinking from the single bottle while sitting atop the highest tower, watching the moons and stars dance around the stone spires of Ishgard in the distance on an uncharacteristically clear night, dreaming of what kind of knights they would become. The more they drank, the more they dared each other to make more incredulous predictions though by that point Aymeric already knew what had to be done.

He couldn’t quite remember how the evening had ended which seemed fitting given the amount they had consumed, the warmth spreading through their bodies, drowning out the chill in the air, filling them with hope and courage. Haurchefant was the centre of his world back then, he just didn’t realise at the time it had been something grander than comradeship. He could never have imagined leading Ishgard without his best friend at his side.

“Don’t drop me,” Venice’s low mumbling broke his reverie.

“Never,” he promised with a whisper, carrying her back to the guest room.

When he returned from putting her to bed, Estinien was engaged in his nightly winding down ritual: stretching his long limbs and rigid back, a customary habit for any soldier who had spent time in the barebone sleeping quarters afforded by the barracks.

The dragoon had his back to him, showing off the raised marks of fresh scars, the red smudges of recently healed skin, wispy white hair cascading down his rocky shoulders. The strands ever reaching for his midsection, longer and more untamed than they had been kept in the past, gave the impression that Estinien had aged significantly in the past summer. He was like a promissory note, an old temptation waiting to be touched. Experience had taught Aymeric that the illusion would only fade if he reached for it, leading to nothing but misery in the end.

Estinien was the model of a perfect knight, physically and mentally, though the latter was a questionable result given the amount of trauma he had been subjected to during his mostly infallible service. Moreover, he had always been attracted to the smaller Elezen, from the moment they had first laid eyes on each other. Though he avoided tending the spark as long as he could, Estinien had surely known the true extent of his feelings.

It wasn’t until their first deep conversation that Aymeric had learned why his comrade carried such a large chip against his enticing, supple shoulders. Said shoulders made up for their diminished size with the tonal definition one expected from the singular Azure Dragoon who made all the rest before him look like utter weaklings. Though he could not see the sculpted abdominals from his current vantage point, their previous history had revealed their every, intimate detail. The tips of his fingers could practically feel the rough skin with the worn lines and calloused knots, recalling the long strands of hair that would part softly against his raking motions.

The warmth of the Warrior of Light’s body still lingered against his forearms, he tried in earnest to push the competing invitation away. There was plenty of room to appreciate them both, each had their individual strengths and weaknesses. The pain of his past, the hope of his future; they were so much alike and yet so very, very different.

“Enjoying the view?” Estinien teased while reaching for his toes. He very much did though there was little value in voicing the sentiment.

“I wanted to be sure you had enough blankets before I turned in,” Aymeric said carefully, Estinien finally drawing to his full height and beckoning him closer. Together they sat on the lounge, the bedding ready to be laid out at the opposite end.

“These heavy, fleecy things? Plenty, don’t even need these lush silk ones,” Estinien made a repulsed face. Despite how many nights he had spent there, he still found living in the Pillars too jarring for his simple tastes.

“A comfortable rest will not turn you into a snobbish nobleman, you know. You’ve more than earned the right to indulge in a degree of luxury,” Aymeric reminded his friend.

“I’ll never understand how you’ve taken to this lifestyle so well.”

Estinien watched him for a time; the fire had gone out, only a couple of candles illuminated the room throwing distorted shadows over the pair. He had to admit, it was a strange sight for two lowborns to sit side-by-side in a room ladened with expensive pieces of art and furniture. How far they had come. How much further they had left to go.

“Am I doing this right?” Aymeric asked quietly, not meeting Estinien’s curious glance. He leaned heavily against his elbows which poised precariously against his knees, a customary position for one lost in their own thoughts.

“What? Leading Ishgard single-handedly into a brighter future? Who can say.”

“That almost sounds easier to achieve,” he said flatly, trying to assess Estinien’s mute expression.

His friend frowned in response, “Venice.”

He nodded. The sound of her name in that quiet room, it was as if the candles had all been relit in unison, an unknown song swelled against his breast, Estinien practically looked jovial in the faux glowing image. He wondered if his cheeks showed the same level of elation or if Estinien could already tell how much of an impact Venice’s very presence had on his current deposition.

“I hurt a man I loved once, a beautiful man. Ridiculously good looking, knew how to handle a sword, could get anything he wanted with a few carefully chosen words,” Estinien flashed a wide grin then paused, looking intently at the backsides of his hands, his voice lowered, “Anything at all. Except me.

I was too caught up with myself, my anger left no room for the affection he needed. He deserved better than he got from me, he deserved the very best and I...failed, utterly and unreservedly.

So how should I know how to love somebody, what do I _bloody_ know about anything other than destruction?”

They had both played their parts poorly, falling for the folly of youthful lust at a transitory period in their lives when they could not possibly have known what would be expected of them. They had become better knights in service of Ishgard than they had in serving each other but even so, they would have struggled to triumph without Venice. Neither of them had ultimately had what it took to bring about their nation’s salvation. Estinien had always been hopeless at expressing his feelings and Aymeric would not have accepted them well had they been known. He was not accustomed to being the one taken care of, his inability to save everyone left him bereft of his own defences.

“Estinien, it wasn’t your fault. Not entirely, we were both young and stupid..”

“I was. You were the smart one, the better half. Even when you didn’t know what you were doing, you always gave the impression that you did. I used to cling onto that steadfast confidence. You did so much for me and I did so little for you,” he paused when Aymeric reached for his hand, shrugged his shoulders and sighed, “Maybe...Venice can get it right, she is quite in love with you after all.”

“She’s not been so open about it with me.”

“She doesn’t exactly divulge her secrets, I recognise the weight holding her but I know not how to draw attention to it. She has as many scars as us, albeit they harder to see. Give her time, she’ll reveal herself to you.”

“My days are full, what time do I have to do devote to another?”

“Ishgard can take care of itself. You’ve been slaving away for the rest all this time, when are you allowed to get your due?”

“I’m not due anything,” Aymeric said simply, offering his hands up in surrender.

“That doesn’t exactly sound fair. I thought we were supposed to be equal with the war over.”

“It may be over for you but what choice do I have? Somebody has to do the hard work so that everyone else can live their lives.”

“Why does that person have to be _you_ ! This is far more than you agreed to do. When I left, I trusted that you were the right man for the job but I did not think you’d be the _only_ one doing absolutely everything.

You’re strong but you’re not that strong, you’re not indestructible. Have you not given up enough already? What have they ever done for you? Why can’t you be the one taken care of?”

The last was a rich question coming from the man who had blown his chance to do the very same. Aymeric pretended to be very interested in the detail of one of his ringbands to avoid Estinien’s rising accusations. They had been over that ground already. A stern hand on his shoulder made him look into those stormy eyes, grey orbs full of genuine concern. Where had that look been when he needed it most?

“How can I give her what she needs, how can I love her when a piece of me is missing?”

“You daft, romantic fool. Take it back, I bequeath it to you.”

As if it could be that simple, what was lost would never come back.

“It was never my wish to bring you harm,” Estinien’s expression was sincere, his eyes full of repentance.

He reached out to cup Aymeric’s longer ears, gently taking stock of his companion’s flustered emotions. Slowly, he applied increasing pressure between each thumb and forefinger, firm and purposeful, not enough to generate pain but only just. They were forehead to forehead, nose to nose. A tortured dove and a chained raven blending into one. With hot breath tingling against their cheeks, neither wanted to disturb the other. A heartbeat passed.

Knighthood had not come naturally to Aymeric. Estinien, on the other hand, had been blessed with an innate talent, his actions impressing the very masses who would not give his fellow knight the time of day. There had an alluring sense of mystery about him. He was the loner, the drifter, a man of few words. It had seemed like a familiar story to Aymeric, a lowborn outcast striving for a better chance at life. He began to view Estinien as his True North, a focal point he could hold onto in the battering storms. Eventually, he did hold the elusive dragoon in his arms; or rather, he had been the one held. That’s when everything changed.

Estinien made the first move, he always did. He pressed in close, kissing the back of one ear, gently, slowly, a caress with his lips, suckling down the lobe until he was tickling the bottom of his partner’s jawline with smooth layer of hot air, the moisture evaporating as he moved from one planting to the next, ensuring that every seedling was nurtured and sheltered through careful tending. He continued onwards towards an awaiting pair of lips, a sigh of distant passions resurfacing, drawing him forth, soft flesh granting entry, eager to taste the fruits of the last harvest.

It was a delicate balancing act but the dragoon was well-versed in clasping his prey within his powerful legs, ensuring a magnetic vicegrip that firmly held the other man in place, pulling in tight with his arms against the cushions for sufficient leverage. While he fumbled for purchase in his lap, the housecoat came undone so that they were chest to chest, a generous covering of polar bear white grazing against a light smattering of midnight curls.

Clamouring like morning light penetrating towards the elusive forest floor, with reckless abandon, a plunge of piercing lance against a blocking sword, a feint to the left and a decisive grappling hook mustering courage against blighting uncertainties. Though Aymeric might have longed for a more choreographed approach of whispering lights in the wailing wind, he did not want to give up in the face of a worthy contest of strength and will.

The dogged marched continued on, mouths wishing for respite but fingers sussing tired skirmishes from their drained reserves, tracing down the untouched field back towards the scorched earth, an ugly scar, a mark of peace, a promise of a future they were never owed. Blue eyes, grey eyes, adrift in the sky, but what went up had to come back down.

“This doesn’t feel right any more. If it ever did..” Aymeric decided, breathlessly, still cradling the other man’s shoulders. His words left a dull ache in their wake but when they were out, he was about sure as he had been when confronting Hraesvelgr.

“No, it doesn’t,” Estinien agreed, pulling back just a little.

“I’m sorry,” Aymeric cried. Before he could explain himself, Estinien pressed in with another kiss, one which held a note of finality.

“Stop. Not another one of your damn apologies. You don’t owe me anything, you don’t owe _anybody_ anything.”

Unrequited love, that’s what Estinien had been to him. A promise unfulfilled, an open gaping wound that he had managed to keep hidden in favour of his service to Ishgard. He barely recognised the white haired Elezen, his recent confusion and doubt had been replaced with something unfamiliar. Aymeric could tolerate many personal injustices, his experiences had hardened him to where it was miraculous he could feel anything at all. But he was not prepared for Estinien’s sensual display of “too little, too late”. It was more than he could bear, especially given that he already lay vulnerable and wanting for another, gentler soul.

“It must sound strange to someone who can’t say those words himself.”

“What.”

“During my lowest point you led me on with falsehoods, I followed you to the other side but you gave nothing in return. And now, _now_ you want to tell me that you actually cared about my feelings and may have had some of your own?”

“I’m not making a confession or trying to get in your way. The past cannot be undone.”

“Would you even make amends if you could. Do you have any idea how much I have struggled since you left? Your selfishness is hardly a new trait but this..” Aymeric’s anger was bubbling over, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to lash out or retreat to safety.

“I’m glad it was you drew the bow against me, no one else had any more right to put this fool out of his misery. Or release you from yours,” Estinien moved back to his side, hunching over in morose thought, looking not unlike a foreboding gargoyle. The absence of his body heat signaled the end of pleasantries.

“I would never have been able to live with myself if you had died that day,” the emotion was raw, hot against his throat. “Do you think so little of yourself that you truly believe that result would have been the better choice? That somehow, your absence would be the end of your failures, the sum of your choices fading away in the aftermath along with your memory. That somehow I would stop caring simply because you ceased to be? Have any of us truly healed since the deaths of Haurchefant or Ysayle. It is not a clean release, Estinien. I am appalled that you’d want for an easy out like that. There would be no resolution, no closure. Losing you would have only made matters worse.”

“Lucky for us, it did not happen as such.”

 _Lucky for us, we had Venice,_ he thought grimly to himself, desperately trying not think of the alternative outcome. As usual, it fell to him to hold it altogether, to project a sense of calm and control.

Estinien choked something back then tensed up as Aymeric threw himself around him, holding his shoulders tight within his locking embrace, his arms crossing against his friends back so that each hand coddled a quivering mound of hardened flesh. He reached to push his face against his neck, peppering him with light kisses, nibbling down the exposed skin until he heard a telltale grunt of delight, carefree passions finally replacing Estinien’s characteristic disdain.

Who was Aymeric to judge? Estinien had not been the only one of them to traverse the crumbling path that led to contemplating a premature end to one’s own life, a path that ultimately faded into nothingness, surrounded by a hungry void staring back at its ensnared victim. He hugged him back, his eyes closed like his own thoughts. Though there was a lack of true reciprocation, he would not deny Estinien affection when he needed it. He would always be there for him regardless of what he threw his way.

The overabundance of compassion notwithstanding, he struggled to reconcile the fact that Estinien had acknowledged his poor decisions but did not possess the knowledge or, more importantly, the desire to fix them, deeply upset that he would rather give up then work through the hardship. The pattern was altogether familiar and fatiguing. He would not have been alone in the endeavour, why did it seem as though everyone insisted on living their lives in enclosed isolation, letting themselves down because they were too afraid to hurt someone else.

“You never leave the fight. When the battle is over, you immediately look for the next one. I would have done anything to help you. If you had only opened yourself to the possibilities..”

“I kept you at arm’s length for a gods’ damn reason but you couldn’t take no for an answer, what did you expect when you touched a heart of ice? That it should melt in your hands, nay. You only froze yourself in place.”

“Kindness is not a threat,” Aymeric said more for his benefit than his stubborn companion’s.

“ _I’m sorry._ Feel better yet?” Estinien bit out in a mocking tone, injecting no remorse into the words.

The lack of tact had thrown him completely off balance. The hypocrisy! Had Estinien not moments before described himself as in love? He shook his head, too much did not make sense. There were too many ambiguities to decipher: sadness, love, regret, anger, hope. How much longer did he have before the same conversation unfolded with Venice, a forgone pretense to her leaving his side once and for all. How many more times would his overtures to help others backfire in his face.

_Give until it hurts, it’s all you ever do._

An old sensation of unadulterated lust stirred, his bleeding heart rebelling against his fragmented mind.

He wanted to throw Estinien to the ground, to claim his body for his own, to rid him of the pain that kept him from doing as he pleased. He could be the one in charge of their destinies, to elicit rapturous moans, to create perpetual ecstasy, able to literally fuck away the binding emotions that had cause them both impenetrable grief. Physicality in lieu of the indescribable. It would be as honest as fighting for one’s right to exist. He wanted to feel his body’s immediate response, not hear his heart’s labouring deliberations, nor his own. He would give every ilm of himself and not stop until they were unable to think about their captivations.

“I’m fine. Everything is fine,” Aymeric said suddenly, hurriedly pulling the housecoat back on.

“I didn’t ask..” Estinien looked up with curiosity, mildly worried about the shift in tone.

He stormed out of the room, putting distance between them. Rejection and unworthiness, the hallmarks of his coming to age. Estinien was supposed to be better than that, he had been hurt himself. The invisible wound continued to weep, he took refuge within his bedchamber, sliding down the closed door to the cold floor in a heap, knees bent with his face buried against them. The past was catching up, he had thought it buried forever.

The room was dark, a sliver of moonlight filtered in. The ornate bed seemed larger the usual. Empty. He waited for the ground to stop spinning beneath him but even when it did, there was no motivation to do anything other than remain stationary, allowing the chill in the air to prickle his skin, the darkness to shroud his malignant thoughts.

There were obligations and responsibilities aplenty for him to see to, he had to give the appearance of a confident highborn doing all the things nobles were expected to do. The manor was supposed to be full of the sound of a homely wife and the pattering of children’s feet. He was to pass on his new house’s name to the next generation, had he not said it himself that Ishgard would not be healed in his lifetime alone.

Should do this, should do that. His fate, like most, had been preordained by birth. He wasn’t supposed to be interested in another lowborn, especially one that would not further advance his impending legacy, nor was he meant to fantasise about a highborn foreigner out of his league. But Estinien had made him feel like an awkward adolescent who didn’t know his place, no longer was he certain of where he stood.

In addition to the flood of memories which were best left forgotten, he was confronted by the stark image of Estinien that his mind had managed to produce in the heat of the moment. While he was sure his friend would have been up for the scenario as it had played out, he found the tone to be distasteful and alarming. Dominance, manipulation, the desire to conquer, those were traits he attributed to his father. Was he also capable of such machinations? The very thought petrified him.

Moreover, he was confused that it had occurred at all, did he have latent feelings for the dragoon even after the damage had been done? Would he have given him another chance if it had been on offer? He certainly missed the sense of touch between them, Estinien seemed to have missed it as well. If he had asked to do more, would he have refused him? And what of Venice, he had been so certain she was the one that would put the world right again.

A phantom pain shot through him, jolting him suddenly. Instinctively, he clutched at his chest and made to light the nearest candle. The room was too big for him, the bed looked like a monster ready to tear him apart. Another pang of loneliness stabbed from within and he knew, he had been avoiding it his whole life. He had been fighting for change on his lonesome, he could not succeed if he got caught on the rungs of his previous romantic mishaps.

He had not been taught how to love or how to receive it, but he wanted to learn. The hurtful past with Estinien aside, he had seen an overall positive change in the man. Though he would not rectify his mistakes, he was amicable to the idea of moving on, of being there for him as a friend if not more. He could only surmise it had been Venice’s hand which had shaped the transition, hands which he was in desperate need of himself.

Unable to bear the silence of isolation any longer, he left the room and took to the corridor. Tentatively, he opened the door to the guest room and tried both to not disturb its occupant but also let her know he was there at the same time.

“Venice?”

He meant to whisper it but her name came out more as a whimpered cry, his throat scratchy as if he had been on the verge of pouring out his heart. He was like a pane of glass ready to shatter with the faintest scratch. If she refused him right then, it would have hurt more than any of the suppressed memories which he was desperately trying to keep under control.

“Blue?” she called back, muffled by the pillow she was laying on.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” he asked, hesitant as to what he’d do if she said no, already preparing to stay up for the remainder of the night.

“Of course you can.”

Quietly, he undid the buttons of the woollen coat, tearing it off and folding it a neat pile to sit at the edge of the bed. His days were spent following and enforcing rules, he could not fall asleep under the same restraints. She shifted over to give him room and though it was not to be their first time laying together, he suddenly felt uneasy. The chilly air gave him a gentle nudge, luring him toward the thick layer of blankets wrapped around her concealed form. Hesitation got men killed, he knew that better than most.

She siddled against him as if it was the most natural of motions, as if they spent every night so close to one another. His arms folded tightly around her, one becoming a secondary pillow for her tired head, the other settling into a cozy spot between her breasts. He covered her in the way a dainty glove concealed a lady’s hand or the comfortable embrace of one’s favourite pair of thigh high boots sheltering against the crunch of fulm-high snow.

Her toes curling playfully, invitingly. His legs bent to accommodate hers, the tops of his toes tucked neatly against the soles of her feet. He appreciated the sensation of her rigid back muscles against his bare chest, the gradual rise and fall of each breath creating a rhythm that broke apart his mounting insecurities, leaving him free to bask in her warmth. There was peace and tranquility at her side, Venice made him feel _safe_ , a notion he did not know he had been without.

“Aymeric?”

“Yes, dearest?”

“If you squeeze me any tighter, I won’t be able to breathe.”

“My sincerest apologies.”

As she bid, he loosened his hold though he did not let go entirely, she had become as solid as an anchor in an oncoming storm. He was not a whole man. He was in love with her and as those in love so often did, he was learning more about himself.

Simply put, he was too focused on the man he wasn’t, on what he could not achieve with his own two hands. Estinien had to be going through similar motions after the war, as was Venice. While the rest of Ishgard tried to make sense of life after conflict, three warriors were unable to function without each other.

By the time any one of them had the answers, they would be torn asunder by monsters unseen.

\----

He awoke the next morning to find himself alone in the guest bed, Venice’s lingering imprint left upon the sheets. The smell of eggs, freshly cooked bacon, and browned popotoes mixed with pungent spices greeted him in the direction of the dining room. As he got closer, he heard the low rumbling laughter that indicated Estinien had not let the previous evening’s conversation bring down his mood.

Nobody could criticise Aymeric harsher than himself, he had known better than to act out.  With newfound relief, it seemed only he was embarrassed by his unsettled outburst. A fresh day and sufficient rest were exactly the remedy he needed. Reminiscing about the past would would not solve the problems of the future.

Venice was sitting down with a fresh plate of food when he took his seat across from the jubilant pair. Estinien put something in front of him, it certainly had the overall shape of a loaded omelette but the texture was all wrong, the lumpy mass of yolk and melted cheese with peppers dotting what should have been the fluffy surface, all poured out rather than held within a neatly folded pocket.

“Told you he wouldn’t like it,” Estinien shot Venice a sour look. She shrugged and poured a cup of tea, handing it over so that he could add the milk and sugar to his own tastes.

“It’s a little messy but it has all the right components,” Aymeric tried to be as polite as possible.

“See?” Estinien declared victoriously.

“Aye but you flipped it too early, it’s more like scrambled eggs now,” Venice argued. “You don’t have to be nice about it, take my second one.” She traded their plates before he could come to Estinien’s erroneous defence again.

“Should have just gone with eggs over easy. Nothing wrong with runny, helps it mix better,” Estinien muttered to himself.

The morning proceeded as normal from that point, the three of them engaged in conversation, Venice occasionally reaching over to squeeze his hand. Estinien was intent on telling stories about their misadventures at the garrison. One benefit of other nobles was their strong belief that the work day should not start before one had consumed a sufficiently large first meal and Aymeric was determined to turn that to his advantage.

“So this one time we had to escort some pilgrims and a couple of their sodding inquisitor keepers from Dragonhead all the way south towards Monument Tower. Long arse trip, not thoroughly thought out or anything, barely enough supplies to get the job done.

Actually, I should preface this by mentioning we had been up all the previous night on watch duty. Well, Aymeric was. Can’t remember why I.. oh right, I was the last of my unit left there, had to turn in a report from our hunting patrol but the garrison commander had left due to some family emergency preventing me from carry out the task.”

“The garrison commander was the newly appointed Lord Haurchefant and his mother had succumbed to a terrible illness,” Aymeric added helpfully for Venice’s benefit.

“Oh, shit. I forgot. Aye, we didn’t see him for several weeks after her passing,” Estinien paused, trying to recall where he had left off. “Right, so watch duty. I didn’t have to stay but I had nothing else to do and it was a verily shitty task for a lowly recruit to have to put up with alone.”

“I often got stuck with it, my unit’s sergeant didn’t want me to have any _unfair_ advantages.”

“Your sergeant was a bona fide dickhead,” Estinien said pointedly; he made no effort to disagree.

“The captain was friends with his father or thereabouts, he didn’t have a lot of experience with the blade. Or much else.”

“Point is,” Estinien was getting ruffled by the interruptions, “We were already exhausted before the escort dropped in said dickhead’s lap. But we pushed on like good little knights, no complaints. About halfway towards the pass, we find this overturned caravan and some merchant begging for help, saying there’s a group of his brethren hiding in a cave waiting for a timely rescue. Seems too convenient but Ser Dickhead is eager to be a gods’ damn hero so he leads the unit towards the bait.

Bunch of heretics jump us, couple transform into dragons, a pack of roaming aevis wanders in close, it all goes to shit pretty damn fast. We have to choose between defending the worthless inquisitors and their flock or drive off the wyverns before they call for reinforcements. Ser Dickhead’s already soiled himself and lost control of the situation. The two tired as fuck knights have to step up up or everyone is about to experience an untimely demise.

Aymeric turns to me and says, ‘Fuck this-”

“I did not say that.”

“Who’s telling the bloody story? So Aymeric does what he does best, he takes up the sergeant’s shield and shouts at everyone to form up around him, taking charge whilst systematically decimating the heretic forces. Meanwhile, I lure the wyverns away so they can be fought one at a time on our terms once the heretics are put down. It’s slow going but it works.

Everyone’s pretty wiped out at the end but there are no casualties. We basically have to return to Whitebrim to get a new cart for the pilgrims, whole exercise turns out to be a big waste of time except for the fact that we lived to fight another day which is always a good result as far as I can tell. We should have gotten medals and promotions aplenty after all that,” he stopped to turn his attention from Venice back to Aymeric, “Why didn’t we?”

“You were acting independently of the dragoons so you couldn’t be commended for essentially going rogue, even if you were helping me. I, on the other hand, had to deal with an old problem. One of the inquisitors got into the sergeant’s ear about the rumours regarding my parentage. He couldn’t risk being associated with a potential bureaucratic nightmare and had already developed enough reason to despise me by then. Needless to say, watch duty was not the only dull chore I got saddled with after my display of ‘borderline mutinous behaviour’.”

“You showed him up and he couldn’t let you get away with it,” Estinien scowled. “Typical bullshit, merit didn’t mean anything where delicate egos were concerned.”

“I’m sorry you got caught up in my troubles.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Estinien waved away his apology, “Things started to look up around that point. Not everyone was trying to undermine you, the higher-ups took notice of your initiative,” the compliment was unexpected but not unwelcome, “If my actions ultimately elevated you to the position needed to become the saviour of Ishgard, then I guess I did some good.”

“That mantle belongs to Venice,” Aymeric pointed out, trying not to leave her out of the conversation.

“What? No. I don’t need any more embellished accolades. I’m just a citizen doing her part, same as you lot.”

From the onset, Aymeric had recognised the value of a well-thought out strategy. While his superior saw putting him in his place as a mark of punishment and justifiable humiliation, he had seen it as an opportunity. Back in those early days, he had begun to test the boundaries to see what more he could get away with. Perhaps subconsciously he was already plotting his rise to the lord commander’s seat, taking advantage of every weakness within the system he would eventually surmount.

But more often than not, he could not get his foot in the door; he was treated like a half-breed, unaccepted by either side. Highborns saw him as a hotheaded upstart that threatened their hold on the lowborn, the lowborn thought he was full of himself, having started the rumours to garner some personal advantage instead of standing alongside them in the muck. Many Elezen believed he was another illiterate dredge from the Brume, many midlanders thought he was mocking them for their ignorance. With no family and no friends, earning the respect of those around him became a constant effort.

As Venice and Estinien continued to talk, he silently mused on her modern use of foreign euphemisms. He was aware that his own accent had diverted into two distinct dialects: the shaky, rough and tumble voice of a forgettable orphan and the glossy, highly-educated sound of a well-to-do nobleman, the latter most prominent while the former slipped out when his emotions ran unchecked. Venice used Garlean slang so liberally that even Lucia could not decipher it all, she did not need to resort to fanciful terminology to make her point.

Where he had hardships, she tended to have the opposite. He wondered if the reciprocal was also true. In his mind, they were quite compatible.

Estinien gave him a quizzical look then asked a pointed question, “Why did Lucia know about Thordan before me?”

“She knew out of necessity,” Aymeric hesitated.

“I told you everything about _my_ family,” came his irritated retort. Estinien took a breath, the bite dropped out of his voice, “Why didn’t you tell _me_ sooner?”

“I was afraid of your judgement,” he said truthfully, still not addressing the actual grievance, unsure if he actually wanted to. Venice looked nervously between them, waiting for her turn to interject.

“Why would my opinion matter, you’re not afraid to speak your mind to anyone else..”

Panic set in as he tried to think of an appropriate explanation, he could not stall indefinitely. While his thoughts slowly wandered back to the topic at hand, he realised Estinien should have been entitled to the truth from the start. It had been hard enough to gain his respect, if Estinien had known back then that he was some misattributed highborn pretending to be otherwise, he would have taken it as a betrayal of trust.

How could he not recognise why he had withheld that information as long as he had? The feelings from the night before came barrelling back, he couldn’t allow himself to be emotionally unbalanced bells before he was set to give his first speech for the day.

Mercifully, Venice intervened.

The sound of one banging their leg against the thick oaken table reverted through the room followed by a howl of rage from Estinien, “What the hells was that for?”

“I’ll explain it to you later in teensy tiny words that even your blind heart can understand,” Venice fired back at him.

Aymeric let out a held sigh of relief and took the interlude as his cue to leave. There was little point in hanging around for the awkward conversation even if he was mildly curious as to how Venice might excel where he had not. Her immediate defence stirred something new within him but once more he tried to downplay the sensation, they were just friends. Friends that could hold hands and lay together, that could hear each other’s thoughts without saying a single word, could change the other’s mood with a glance, who knew that other liked the ritual of preparing their tea a specific way but also liked watching the other pour it first.

As he went about selecting and appropriate dress suit, he felt himself beaming with affection for the woman with the amethyst hair and the emerald eyes, his annoyance at having to put on civilian clothes completely washed away. He had tried to make a point of alternating his wardrobe on the house floor ever since one member had complained about his constant need to flaunt full battle regalia, as if the Orthodox garments that complimented his armour were not adequate for wear in the Vault. No, there had to be separation between his two roles, lest Ishgard become akin to Limsa’s style of governorship with no distinction between military and civilian jurisdiction.

Satisfied that three-piece ensemble was sufficient, he steeled himself for another round of political theatre. Back to playing the part of the cordial diplomat. Before he could depart, however, he felt Venice’s encasing arms slip around his waist, just under the layer of his suit jacket; had she been another fulm taller, she might have encircled his shoulders instead.

“Lord Speaker,” she greeted him in her well-polished upper class accent. He could feel himself grinning, she only used that voice to tease reactions out of him and she always succeeded.

“Lady Venice,” he acknowledged her in kind then reached out to hold her chin against his as he gave her a brief goodbye kiss. The touch wasn’t fanciful and yet it was long enough to convey a sense of “I’m not ready to be separated from you”. When she looked up at him, her large, bright eyes confirmed the unspoken message.

“May the Fury grant you sanity today.”

“Thank you, my lady. May Estinien not steal yours.”

\---

Later that afternoon, in between turbulent sessions of wordplay, he chanced upon both dragoons practicing at the training yards. They were enjoying a needed break, cooling off after what would have been some gruesome spars, their wooden quarterstaves poised against a rack of similar inert training weapons. He could hear their panting for breath along with the sound of Venice redressing the freshly inflicted wounds which they had given one another. They were chatting amongst themselves, utterly oblivious to his presence.

“I’ve been thinking more and more about your question,” Estinien said.

“Which one?” Venice enquired.

“Did I love Ysayle. I thought at first it was the most ludicrous concept you’ve ever proposed, She was intolerantly naive, overly stubborn, head in the clouds, a ridiculous woman who couldn’t see the forest for the trees. But then, neither could I. If anything meaningful came out of that trip to the Churning Mists, it was that hard wrought lesson.”

“Estinien, whether you acknowledge how you feel or not, it’s absolutely obvious to me. You both grew so much on the path to Zenith and beyond, maybe I did too. Without her, it’s as if we have lost a sister, an integral part of the selves we became afterwards,” a long pause while Venice repositioned to do her stretches, “Bickering pairs are commonplace, look at all the quarrelsome couples in the world. Conflict doesn’t have to diminish one’s ability to care about another.”

“My entire existence hinged on conflict. Nidhogg, Ysayle, against myself. The absence of strife and turmoil made no sense. I couldn’t conceive of the ideals she was peddling and so I admonished her instead,” the regret was dripping in his tone. “How can I care about someone who I despised? And a woman, at that. No offense.”

Was Aymeric hearing him correctly? When it came to the man he had fought beside through so much, he couldn’t be bothered to figure it out but a stranger was somehow more compelling? He tried to remind himself that he didn’t know the full extent of their conversation. Rationalisations meant very little compared to the motions of the heart. Estinien was a complicated individual, to say the least. The conflict within him was the very thing that had drawn Aymeric to him in the first place.

“None taken. It doesn’t have to make sense, attraction to someone else doesn’t always have to be sexual..”

“Regardless, I can’t act on it, Venice. She’ll never know.”

“ _I know_. Look, I went through these same motions in regards to Haurchefant. It doesn’t get easier. You do what you can to make their sacrifices matter, keep their memories alive through your own deeds.”

“I’m really trying to but I’ve lost so much of my original purpose along the way.”

_You are not alone._

“Find a new one. Onwards and upwards,” Venice’s iconic optimism, unrestrained and undeterred.

A heavy sigh, a shift in tone, “We’re both biding our time right now, what really comes next for us?”

“Varis. Emperor Varis zos Galvus of the Sixth Legion. I know not when the rest of the Alliance will make a move against him but he’s next on _my_ list of priorities.”

“The arsehole who followed us into Azys Lla. The one who killed Ysayle.”

“That’s the one.”

“I will pledge my lance to the cause. Whenever you are ready, I will join your hunt. Even if it’s just the two Crimson Dragoons against the entire Empire.”

“While I won’t point out what happened the last time you were seduced by the lure of revenge, I will make an exception in this case.”

“The line between revenge and justice is always shifting,” the sound of Estinien getting back to his feet, Venice’s grunt indicating he was helping her to hers as well, “Thank you, Venice, we must honour her in our own fashion.”

Aymeric immediately thought of Haurchefant lying in his arms, how he had known the moment his aether had rejoined the lifestream without any shred of doubt. There was no such closure for Venice or Estinien, there was no grave to visit, no tangible proof of Ysayle’s passing. Part of him lamented that he could not help them through their pain, had barely known Ysayle himself though he wish he had. They revered her, or at least Venice did, as a living symbol of peace in the face of adversary. Would they do something as reckless as challenging the Emperor alone?

He supposed it was the fitting conclusion in their minds but he would not let them believe they had to pursue that course. Before he could voice his concern, however, a courier made straight for him, handing over a letter from the count of House Durendaire He made subtle motions to dissuade the lad from revealing his presence but they went unheeded.

When he turned around, Estinien looked mildly annoyed with arms crossed. Venice’s expression was significantly softer, she reached up on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek while Estinien looked on with a wry smile, pretending not to notice.

“Have you not mastered the art of eavesdropping yet?”  
“I didn’t wish to interrupt..”

They were both wearing training tunics, short sleeve tops that laced down the front, showing off their hulking arm muscles along with loose fitting trousers that allowed for maximum reach and flexibility. Though the afternoon was sunny, it was beyond nippy for the light, minimalistic attire. Venice was shivering in place, dancing from one foot to the other while Estinien pulled off his tunic and pointed himself at the sun’s incoming rays.

“Could you give us a few moments? You could keep warm with some javelin tosses,” Estinien nodded to Venice. She took the hint without any fuss.

Wandering slowly towards the target boards, she cut a striking figure from behind. For a moment, he forgot that Estinien was even present.

“You never could resist a pair of well-rounded, finely carved shoulders; doesn’t matter who they’re attached to,” Estinien mused knowingly.

“Not everything has changed,” he laughed softly to himself.

“There is some comfort in that, my friend.”

“May I?” he asked, indicating the groddy shirt which Estinien was intent on wiping himself. A disgusting habit to be sure but one he didn’t want to dismiss wholeheartedly.

He was surprised that his touch did not dispel the illusion, rather Estinien seemed to enjoy the sturdy pressing of his palm against one shoulder blade while he saw to removing the gathered perspiration with the other. The dragoon waited with patience as the steady task was completed. A simple gesture between two men who had fought through so much, a silent recognition that all was still well. The temptation was gone but the body remained behind, made stronger and more beautiful for the struggles it had overcome.

“Ysayle..” Aymeric began boldly, angling to ask the question he dreaded the answer to.

“Aye,” Estinien turned around, throwing he dirty shirt over his shoulder. He sized his friend up for a moment, looking deeply into his eyes, “She reminded me so much of you, her stubborn tenacity, the unflinching focus, the need to see justice done, her insufferable kindness. So full of drive and purpose, sometimes that seemed to be all she had. A force, a will to be reckoned with. You can’t reason with someone who wears their heart on their sleeve as she did.”

“I see.”

“I’m such a mess. Venice has helped me recognise the things that I was oblivious to in the past but some of it I need to work out for myself. This is exactly why I wanted to stay away from everyone.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you came back. The things I said to you..they needed to be said. Out loud.”

“I know, I needed to hear them. Really, she’s right. I can be an enormous arse as far as feelings are concerned..”

“But that doesn’t diminish the fact that you’re just as breakable as anyone else,” Aymeric shifted slightly in his boots, wondering how best to say what sounded utterly trite and cliche in his head. Estinien held his full attention, “I loved you with all my heart, I still do but maybe more now as a brother. I forgive you, Estinien. Never doubt that.”

A thoughtful, stoic nod, the hardness in his eyes loosened, a relaxing of the brow. No emotional outburst, no restlessness. Understanding and relief in equal measure.

“Thank you, truly. Whether it's called love or something else, you have stood by me when others would not and I will always do the same for you.”

Aymeric embraced him, glad that he had not done further damage with his honesty. Estinien pretended to be stifled, trying to push him off.

“Calm down, everything is fine.”

“And yet you’re already angling to leave.”

“How could you tell?” Estinien poked at his pocket, pulling out the azure gem of his soulcrystal. “Aye, I think Venice is doing well enough without my help and you don’t have any immediate need of me either. Don’t worry, I’ll not be too far away this time. Heustienne and I made a pact with the dragons. Verdolfnir and his consort are preparing their nest now so we’ve agreed to help move the Horde eggs into their clutch and watch over them while they settle in. I’ll be literally over the mountains if something should come up.”

“That’ll be one less problem to convince the Houses to care about. Knowing that someone is keeping the Dravanians safe will be enough for my own peace of mind. Don’t overdo it, there is no shame in a tactical retreat should you need to regroup..”

“Now as to you and Venice,” his voice lowered in case she returned, “If you hurt her, I will hunt you down as if you were Nidhogg himself. Understand?”

“I do.”

“Good, let us not drag out this farewell any longer then.”

The kiss he gave him was aggressive with an underlying tenderness, typical of what had been a common exchange between them. Though it was on the rough side, there was no hidden longing or lustful searching, no passionate thirst for satisfaction. The generous interlocking of their thin lips bespoke of everlasting brotherhood. It took him back to a simpler period in their lives, when all they had to worry about was how to survive.

“Where’s mine?” Venice pouted in jest when they broke apart. Estinien took it as a challenge, lunging for her next.

It was the most absurd sight, watching Estinien kiss a woman. He couldn’t believe it, neither could Venice though she did her utmost to keep in the spirit with the gesture by not hindering her excitable partner. A mirthful chortle escaped from him, the more he tried to hide it, the louder it became, growing into a boisterous laugh, an uncontrollable release of pure joy. His sides began to ache from the pleasure, eyes began to water, he doubled over to try and catch his breath. Venice put out a hand to steady him.

When he looked up, having partially regained his composure, Estinien’s entire face had gone beet red. He hoped his friend did not think him laughing at him for doing anything improper, rather the moment itself had tickled him unexpectedly. For a split-second, the weight on his shoulders was gone. Right there, in the company of his closest friends, he felt as if everything was within perfect balance.

“I’ve missed that sound,” Venice said, looking at him with a huge smile.

“Be sure to help her with footwork, her throws are on point but..” Estinien offered some parting advice while equipping the soulcrystal.

“I’m well aware of Venice’s deficiency in coordination,” he answered through spates of laughter, trying to find his lost stoicism again.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” she whinged with a grating groan, mildly offended by their brutal assessment.

“You just need to find your rhythm, that’s all.”

“Must be a Hyur thing, to be so flat-footed.”

“I’ll work with her on it.”

“Good luck. You’re going to need it,” Estinien slapped his shoulder with his gloved hands, fully decked out in his new, fresh blue and gold toughened leathers. It was odd to see him without the classic Drachen armour and yet, completely appropriate.

“Take care of yourself, Dragonheart. I want to see you back in one piece,” Venice said, throwing her arms around his shoulders and planting a cheeky kiss on his cheek.

“ _Dragonheart?_ ” Estinien wrinkled his nose with derision.

“She’s recently taken to giving everyone pet names, I think it is meant as a term of endearment,” Aymeric explained with a grin.

“I’m off then,” Estinien gave her a dubious glance then adopted his jump posture, lance held perpendicular to the rest of his body, “Don’t either of you kids do anything that I would do.”

“He does realise we’re both older than him, right?” Venice laughed, placing her hand into his.

“We all have many summers left in us,” Aymeric said quietly, reflecting on the notion of second chances.

“He’s going to be alright, I know it.”

“I’ll continue to pray to the Fury nonetheless.”

“Are _you_ going to be alright?”

“I will be, in due time. For now, I would like to pick up where he left off,” he turned to face her, motioning towards the training equipment around them, “If you are willing to resume, that is.”

“Right now? But I’m so tired already,” another heavy groan. He’d have to keep in mind that she was not yet one of his knights but if she was ever to become one, her lack of discipline would have to be remedied.

“Best time to learn,” he said while unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling up the sleeves to protect the fragile lace from getting caught on anything, “You won’t always be able to rely on me to pull enmity or cast Clemency. Forget the lance, don’t worry about defences. There is only one pattern you need to learn. Knowing it and feeling it are not the same. Show me your ready stance. Acceptable, but room for improvement,” he walked around her, nudging her into the proper placement, stopping just behind to make sure she wouldn’t slouch when he took his eyes away. To be sure she wouldn’t, he held onto her sides with both hands above her hips, there was a notable shiver as she adjusted to his firm grasp, “Shoulders back, ease your gait, move with the balls of your feet. Do not lock yourself up, relax. A dragoon must always be anticipating movement. Don’t depend on your armour to absorb the blows, try not to get hit at all.”

She nodded, “I like it when you hold me like that.”

“Show me steady progress and you will be appropriately rewarded,” he murmured in her ear. Another shiver, a gentle prodding before he left go. Training was not to be a sensual affair and he would not let her think giving into her desires would make him go any easier on her.

“Isn’t this too predictable?” she said while clumsily following his steps.

“Aye, it can be. But it’s more important to have a set routine that you can adapt to instead of throwing yourself in random directions. It is for your benefit, not your opponent’s. Keep following the same pattern, know how the ground feels under each step, over and over until you’re practically dreaming about it. Repetition and discipline are your fallbacks in any situation, instinct will save you more than thoughtful strategy.”

“I thought you weren’t any good at teaching..”

“Mayhaps now I have a vested interest in protecting you. I for one would not like to invite Estinien’s wrath.”

“He warned me too,” she pointed out.

“While I can’t be around for most of your journey, I may at least impart what comes as second nature to me in the field of battle.”

“If I had been faster in the Vault..”

“Sometimes you can’t be ready for everything. But yes, it was a horrific moment for all involved. I would have you as prepared as you can be in future encounters, if I were to lose you.. I could not bear it, even as a hypothetical it is too much.

Again, practice again.”

“I never seem to know which direction to go in..”

“Then follow my lead, we can work on the rest later.”

Instead of relying on fortune and other comrades to pull her through, she needed adequate training to go along with the other skills she had learned, most of which she had long taken for granted. Though she didn’t want to acknowledge it, she had become an enemy combatant against Garlemald the moment she had chosen to defect. Venice had been fighting for Eorzea’s preservation ever since, a soldier in all but name.

He had many regrets, many guilts left to absolve, but he would not add Venice to the growing list of his mistakes. Maybe Estinien was right, things could work out in his favour for once. He had to try.

\---

Venice was constantly suggesting Aymeric needed a break from the piling stress of his work, a sentiment he couldn’t discount.

He had grown frustrated with the Alliance for knocking back the vast majority of his proposals in favour of shifting resources towards placing Ala Mhigo’s salt-dependent economy back on track. Lord Hien of Doma had also politely rejected his invitation, stating that he was too overwhelmed with local matters to attend. To soften the blow, he promised to give Ishgard priority when talks did commence.

Lord Hien’s soothing empathy showed that he was not the only leader laden beyond his limits. He always look forward to his letters, they were full of honest, and often comical, commentary. It made him long to see the East even more, Venice swore to take him when time permitted a thorough vacation, promising there was too much to absorb during a single visit. In the meantime, she proposed another sort of respite.

Not many things could make Aymeric nervous but spending an evening with Venice in the public’s purview was most certainly among them. While it was to be their first proper appearance as equals, the usual anxieties that came attached with the personal milestone were not what set him at unease. Since accepting the nomination for the Speaker’s chair, his private life (if ever there had been one) had become entirely forfeit.

While he was accustomed to the constant pressure, the misconstruing of his words for unintended promises, the ceaseless game of power that his colleagues took too much pleasure from, Venice was not. She often shied away from attention, the limelight smothering compared to her own brilliant glow. Nor did he want her to become the latest social fixture to dazzle and distract. The evening was supposed to be a relatively calm release from duties that had captured and pulled them apart, a chance to live a little.

She wore a strapless, form-hugging top in bold blues and popping purples. The skirt of the former spring dress had been cut out to flare around her embroidered stockings, patterns of stars in various sizes and colours ran up and down her legs. If he had to take a guess, the entire ensemble had been designed and hemmed together by her hand. Her usual pair of black high-heeled, knee-length boots tied the look together.

No one in Ishgard, nor any where else in the realm, would have an outfit similar shape and style. He had tried offering his cloak to cover her exposed shoulders but she had brushed off his concerns, locking his arm within hers, and declared the night would warm up as it rolled on. Venice wasn’t wrong, he even began to enjoy the crowded tables and the diverse patronage that had formed around them.

Spirits were high and not just because the alcohol was flowing swiftly. He got a genuine sense that what the actual people were doing to improve themselves was wholly more positive than their greedy representatives led their fellow colleagues to believe. They spoke of their personal interests and ambitions, ranging from big to small, everything from things he knew a lot about to obsessive niche topics that fascinated his insatiable need to know more. Complex, multi-faceted topics such as those relating to politics or religion were readily avoided.

The Machinist Guild had empowered the people regardless of class, giving them freedom and courage to make choices of their own design. There was much talk about the future, of expanding into the cold wastes of Coerthas and Dravania. Though the city itself had changed significantly, he was not the only one to catch a whiff of wanderlust. Others sought the possibility of starting fresh in the wilds. The Calamity had certainly made that prospect more challenging but there was an anxiousness, a will to overcome the odds among the people of Ishgard.

For his part, they did not try to ask tricky questions or pry into the inner workings of his work in the House of Lords. They were more interested in his recounting of events in the Churning Mists, of knowing how much alike the dragons were to themselves. He indulged their curiosity and though his own drink had been finished, the rest carried on with their unhindered merrymaking, including a highly inebriated Venice who made the rounds, sometimes leaving him to his own devices. He was no stranger to carrying a conversation with or without her, they were fiercely independent of one another and he had ample opportunity to see a more social, cheerful side to the casually reserved Warrior of Light.

A revolving door of people came and went over the course of their time at the Forgotten Knight. Highborn, lowborn, outsiders, people he knew and people that were complete strangers. A couple of young ladies in Astrologicum garb kept gushing over a Hingan man who had recently come to exchange knowledge about some foreign healing art that he had never heard of. Venice tended to favour the lower half though occasionally wandered off to greet people she recognised upstairs.

Once ,she came back with Lord Artoirel in tow, seemingly eager to mix with the regulars. He was sure the young count was creating an elaborate ploy to convey that he was in touch with the masses. Venice and her brother talked amongst themselves in hushed tones, he couldn’t make out what they were saying but he did catch Artoirel’s wary glances in his direction. Not everything had changed, just another dissatisfied noble to pander to in the days ahead.

Aymeric _was_ one of those incessant nobles himself, even Venice had been reluctant to meet him for the first time. She continued to mingle, unfettered by the constraints that held him at bay. While he had to watch his words, he realised everyone who spoke to him had to do the same. The people claimed to love them both, lavishing their compliments, whispering sweet-nothings. A favour for a favour, praise for praise. The game never stopped. Was he ever truly off-duty? Would the people of Ishgard ever accept him as an individual with his own thoughts and feelings?

No longer were his ears overwhelmed by the swelling noise of drunks shouting at one another. More than warmth, the grand fireplace on the upper floor brought back some of the milder memories from Aymeric’s childhood, though that did not dissuade the proprietor from making a fuss about him opting to sit on the floor so close to the soot. What kind of example would it set to the other patrons? Appearances were all that mattered in a world a devoid of honest men. But he was stubborn, so he ordered another sweet drink to placate the man’s displeasure.

The night was young but he did not possess Venice’s endless font of energy. As if summoned, she appeared behind him then, her heels drowned out by the grody rug. In not too dignified fashion, she attempted to bend down, half-falling in his lap. He eased her into a comfortable sitting position, loosely draping an arm around her in case she swayed again.

“What are you doing up here all by yourself?” she asked casually.

“Thinking, or trying to,” he said honestly.

“Oh, you want me to go..”

“No, no it’s fine. I just needed to be somewhere quiet for a spell. How about you?”

“I was going to have another glass but I couldn’t just pass by without checking on you.”

“How much have you had?” he asked reluctantly. It was obvious she was beyond her limits.

“Not enough to start punching anybody,” she smiled up at him. Was that supposed to be a joke? “Why? Have I done anything embarrassing yet?”

“Not unless you count trying to give Lord Stephanivien a pash,” he said, disappointment edging out over sympathy.

“Fuck, did I? I’m so sorry,” she sounded genuinely mortified.

“Thanks to quick thinking on his part, you weren’t successful. Poor man has apologised to me about a dozen times since.”

“Definitely had too much then,” she frowned. “That said, I’m surprised it was him and not Hilda. Once, after one of our booze-fuelled training sessions, we got locked in one of the supply sheds. One thing led to another and.. You probably don’t want to hear about it, do you? She does have such lovely little ears and those mesmerising red eyes..”

“Venice,” he put up a hand to stall her ramblings.

“Right, fuck. There I go again,” she stared intently at the fireplace, his arm hadn’t moved despite her strange tales. She moved in closer, her head resting against his chest. Then, without any warning, “Are we a couple?”

“I don’t know, are we?” He looked down at her and she looked right back, eyes searching for the answer he wanted to hear. The drink had loosened her inhibitions, it would have been a cheap victory for her to state her true feelings then.

“I like you a lot,” she said slowly, not quite ready to give a thorough explanation. Mentally, he sighed with relief, he would have felt far too guilty if she had said more without being sober first.

“I’m quite enamoured with you as well.” Likewise, he also held back. A release would have benefitted him alone, there was no harm in waiting for the right moment. “Perhaps we should wind down and discuss this somewhere more appropriate.”

She nodded, “Aye, I’ve stolen enough of your night. Let me go and say goodbyes.”

While she set about hugging everyone and getting caught in their webs of lengthy farewells, he finished what remained of a goblet of water. The acrid smell in the pub had begun to cause irritation, smokey and full of various scents that should not have coexist as long as they had.

He could overhear a boisterous conversation a couple of tables over, recognising the loudest voice as belonging to the son of a prickly House of Commons member, a midlander intent on returning the church to its glory days. Somebody always wanted to dictate what somebody else could and could not do. The boy was old enough for the previous conscription age though the way he gloated on made him appear immature. Lucky for him, young boys were no longer forced to serve against their will.

“How have things really changed? Sure we have a voice but so do the nobles, the damn high houses have individual votes! Now we act through proxy rather than direct means, the goals are ever the same,” he challenged his transfixed audience of equally young, naive lads, all barely holding down their first round of drinks, “Just takes them longer to tell us what is what. No matter. The lowborn continue to serve the high, maybe we get paid for the privilege then the tax man comes along and scoops up the excess. We should be the ones in control, it’s time to put the blue bloods down. That’s how democracy is supposed to work, right? We take turns!”

A gentle hand nudged him, he half-expected Venice but was greeted by Hilda’s warm eyes instead, “Don’t listen to that prick, he’s always going on like that hoping to provoke someone into having a go. Then he’ll sick his father on them or try some other underhanded trick. Fury knows what he actually hopes to achieve but the younger lot lap it up, especially the sort who don’t have careers as upstanding knights ahead of them.”

“We have to find a better way to employ everyone, regardless of class,” he admitted.

“We shouldn’t _have_ classes,” she reminded him.

“You’re not the first to make that suggestion,” he tried to laugh but the boy’s boasts were still agitating his ears, another typical midlander unable to comprehend the range of an Elezen’s hearing. He sighed and looked for Venice, hoping that she was nearly done so they could be away.

“For what it’s worth, Lord Aymeric, you are doing a great job but you are strung out too far. You should spend your days working hard, and your nights making love to your woman.”

“She’s not _mine_ ; Venice doesn’t belong to anyone,” he countered, but the petite gunsmith had performed a vanishing act.

He was confident that only Venice could see his trueself, perish the thought that others could see. To expect his freedom before anyone else’s was pure folly. Torn. Their masks could fall but not his. The children of Ishgard had all been given seats at the table, they could do whatever they so chose. If they had known what it was like to grow up without such a choice, maybe they wouldn’t be so quick to reverse the table settings.

“Mark my words, we’ll end up right where we started if we don’t act first,” the boy continued on, his onlookers nodding in agreement, banging the table with their half-full tankards, “The coup was the beginning, there will be more where that came from. So don’t get comfortable because we’ll be needed soon. Say what you will about the True Brothers, their methods may be extreme but their message is clear: the church is what holds us together, to undermine that pillar is to destroy Ishgard itself. Had they only but finished the job and we’d be in a better position now without the foreigners stealing our prosperity from under us, without the nobles carrying on as they did before, not paying for some damn war that doesn’t even involve us, Halone our only judge..”

Fast movement, Venice pushed past a couple of engrossed bystanders to grab the boy by the shoulder, shouts ringing out as she lunged in to give him a piece of her mind, “ _Finish the job?”_

“Unhand me woman…oh,” stark realisation as to who she was dawning upon him. Gasps of fear from his friends. “You’re the Warrior of Light.”

“Damn straight. And that over there is Lord Aymeric, if you hadn’t noticed,” she said jabbing a finger in his direction, still twisting the lad by his shoulder.

“Venice, this isn’t how we solve our problems..” Aymeric cautioned neutrally, unable to move, wanting desperately to pull her off her victim.

The lad smirked, knowing the compromising position he had placed the lord commander in. If he reacted, he would have to deal with the bureaucratic repercussions. If he did not do anything, he would look weak. It was supposed to be his damn night off. Everything hung on Venice. The boy had been spoiling for a fight, to work up the crowd with outrage that would cloud their reason, he hadn’t counted on the slayer of Nidhogg being in attendance.

“You’ve already done your part against the dragon menace. Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be back in Garlemald by now, warning your people that we’re coming for them next?”

“First of all, it would take less than a single legion to take out the best knights Ishgard has to offer so to imply you’re ready for that confrontation is absolutely laughable,” she counted off on the fingers of her free hand while pinning him to the table in a headlock.

“Second, my family lives _here_.

And I would not have succeeded against Nidhogg without Hraesvelgr’s intervention, which I will _politely_ remind you was only achieved thanks to Aymeric’s persuasive arguments. You may disagree with him from time to time, but he is the reason Ishgard stands at all.”

“Why should I, or anyone else, care what Aymeric Graystone thinks. He is not one of us even though he pretends to be.”

Nobody had called him that since his promotion, not to his face anyway; neither was it accurate, nor respectful. Only one person had elevated that term into a positive description and he was no longer counted among the living. Aymeric continued to stand stoically behind Venice’s shoulder, his arms crossed tight to hide his own clenched fists. In that moment, he was too shocked to think of any rebuttal. Venice noted the indiscretion as well, seeing red as soon as she heard it.

“What is that supposed to mean: not one of us! Not a fellow lowborn, not one of Halone’s faithful, not _Ishgardian_? You would rather see him bleed than help him succeed! What in the Seven Hells is wrong with you?”

He was used to the jabs, the insults, the decries against his character; he had learned how to rise above it with his integrity intact, without resorting to violence. Venice didn’t hold herself to the same lofty standard and he couldn’t begrudge her for that, most people couldn’t control themselves when lesser men attempted to deride them. Though her actions were misguided, he couldn’t ignore her attempts to defend his honour. Once upon a time, he had had none to defend.

“He’s just a kid he doesn’t recognise the nuisances between light and dark.”

The crowd was gathering, like circling sharks smelling fresh blood. The boy tried to pull himself free, his friends shouted at Venice to let go. She relinquished only to get kicked in the shins for her trouble. Two factions were forming, the situation rapidly deteriorating into an all out brawl. A bottle was broken, a punch thrown somewhere else. Shouting. For a small mercy, it was mostly shouting.

The younger lot claimed the coup d'etat was a power grab, an old narrative with a new twist: the Houses were a temporary measure installed until the new king had established his hold on the Alliance, playing a lengthy, complicated game to not just wrest power from the lowborn but from all of Eorzea itself. The contingent that believed Aymeric had willingly orchestrated the coup was growing, could no one see that what he wanted least was to take his father’s place? How could he fight against the false narrative they had created to perpetuate their misinterpretation.

Eventually, he was able to physically intervene, grabbing Venice by the waist, dragging her away from the mess she had instigated. She kicked and jabbed, unable to take the higher road as he had. A rather unfortunate Lord Stephanivien attempted to help him contain the enraged warrior, getting elbowed hard in the face before relenting. The distraction was enough to get her arms behind her back.

“My own damn fault for getting so close,” the young lord said while holding his bleeding nose aloft, someone handing him a handkerchief. Venice had left a huge welt against one of his cheeks. In days past assaulting a nobleman would have been met with a severe punishment.

“Thank you for pulling your hound away. Maybe Ishgard has some use for you after all.”

_Steady, steady._

She writhed against him hard until he was able to sustain control, one hand clamped around both her wrists, the other pressing firm between her shoulder blades, “Please, desist. Don’t put me into this position. Not you,” Aymeric pleaded into her ear. Her violent protestations left her, the fight drained in favour of not hurting him. Instead, she resorted to taking long, deep breaths.

“What did you say about hounds, boy?” Hilda barked, pushing her way back to the front of the crowd.

“Don’t throw more pitch on the burnpile,” Lord Stephanivien warned quietly, hand out to keep her from getting too close.

“How can you tolerate this?” Venice’s voice croaked with emotion, close to tears.

“They are just words, my love.”

“It isn’t fair.”

“Life isn’t fair!” Aymeric felt his own tensions rising dangerously high.

 _Life isn’t fair, none of it makes any sense, and nobody gives a damn about anybody_.

Cautiously, he let go of his grip and moved to pull her against him, arms crossed around her waist with her arms still pinned to her sides. While nuzzling her cheek, he tried to keep himself from giving into the same anger, the hopeless sense that change was slow, that ultimately he was powerless. She didn’t have to endure his pain, they were his problems to solve.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered softly, turning to say more but before he could respond, the group of troublemakers got up to surround their leader.

“We should go, this place reeks of bullshit anyway,” the loud one declared.

The crisis was over, or it would have been if Venice could resist the urge deliver its final words.

“Run and hide behind your mother, you little shit,” her voice smothered with poison, aiming to cause lasting harm.

_Fury preserve me.._

“My mother died on the Steps of Faith when your precious Lady Iceheart tore down the wards. But I guess you wild bitches have to stick together, right?”

He could not stop her then. She broke free of his hold and ran for the boy, who stood in paralysed fright as his comrades backed away. Venice threw out her hands to cast a wind spell. Without a staff, it was not as powerful as the most basic Aero I but it was enough the send the lad flying backwards, sliding at least a yalm against the dirty floor on his backside.

She fell to her knees, a mixture of too much to drink and the draining of her battle aether, but was already struggling to get back to her feet, determined to finish what she had started.

“He isn’t worth your energy,” Hilda said, bending down to hug Venice.

“Ysayle, Ysayle,” she cried, Hilda stroking her hair, not letting go.

The boys’ friends ran at full-pelt, leaving their leader to scramble behind them. No way did they want to fight a woman that could cast magic with her bare hands. The crowd was stunned, it was a powerful display of emotion; some cheered her on, others offered words of comfort, others lamented it had escalated to that point at all.

“We’re going. _Now_ ,” Aymeric declared, peeling her off the ground, trying his utmost to avoid the curious glances and the spurning rumours already beginning to spread amongst the onlookers.

He led Venice through a long, winding path back to the manor, making sure she had ample time to walk off her drunkenness while he contemplated how to confront the trouble that would inevitably arise from her actions. To use one of her favourite expressions: “there was a political shitstorm brewing on the horizon”. One more problem to deal with.

As they walked, he listened to worrying tales about her past, how she had lived the life of a streetrat in Garlemald with just her band as her family. Given her state of mind, the stories focused more on her near misses, all the harrowing accidents of taking care of friends who were victims of substance abuse or other types of self-harm, how she taken to drink at a young age without any regard for the dangers.

His irritation of her nightly display turned into sympathy fast. Every now and again, she would stop to catch her footing, looking sickly at the cobbles while he held onto her. She would marvel at how different the Ishgardian streets were from her old haunts. The more stories she told, the more anxious he became that allowing her to have so much had not been a wise move.

Once they were safely home, he made sure she had a glass of water in her hands right away, “Small sips, Venice. You’ve had a busy night.”

She didn’t argue, handing it back to him when she was finished. Sitting on the edge of his bed, looking around in bewilderment, “Why haven’t we had sex yet? Is it because I’m not pretty enough?”

He blinked hard, as if seeing her for the first time, “You’re the prettiest woman in the entire world.”

“I’d like to do it..”

“We’re not going to tonight, not while you’re like this,” he said firmly, sitting down and encouraging her to give him access to her boots so that he could pull them off. It was a clumsy affair but he wasn’t about to let her fall asleep in dirty clothes, nor did he feel comfortable keeping her in a separate room while she was unsteady. “I’ll find you something to slip into, can you do the rest yourself?”

She nodded and began pulling at the obi that held her top in one piece. Hurriedly, he fetched one of his nightshirts from a dresser, a typical pale blue one and handed it over. He hadn’t meant to offend her privacy but he had mistimed when to look, catching a glimpse of her decadent tanned skin, the garment having just been pulled away from her chest, her plump round boulders hanging as she bent down to undo her leggings. Again, he turned away, cheeks flushed with warmth.

She took the shirt and buttoned it up before he came around to tuck her in. As he did, she was too clumsy to pull her legs up so he had to help sort her into a laying position, once more seeing more than he should have done without her permission. The Warrior of Light, in one of his old tunics, wearing nothing but a pair of sultry black-laced undergarments beneath. He took a deep breath then pulled the blankets around her, ensuring that she would not want for more warmth.

It had been an adventurous first outing for the pair, to say the least.

“Aymeric? Aymeric. Aym..ric..” she slurred her words while he tried to get himself ready for bed.

“What?!”

“Did I tell you I like you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

_Fury deliver upon me the utmost patience._

She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, he returned to his side to blow out the candle then rolled up on his side, his back to her so that she would have as much space as if she were in her own bed. At last he could put the night behind him.

“Sleep well, Violet,” he whispered.

\---

Exhaustion had taken its toll, he could not keep up.

Sensations of colour and sound swirled around him, there was no sky or ground to be found. Tendrils of concepts wound and coiled, glimpses of dreams forgotten. He felt images in their most basic, primordial form: a hollow victory, unresolved contention, endless emptiness. Chaos and order, broken and whole.

Slowly shapes began to form, snippets of his past arose from nothing.

The coppery taste of fresh blood mixed amongst crystalline snow, the knowledge that Ishgard loomed forlorn in the distance. Nobody was going to save him, should have jumped in after the Eyes to be sure, would have made everything easier. But he had chosen Estinien over reason, life over death. For all the good it had done.

The sound of Thordan’s sly serpentine voice, weaving his tangled lies. The mingled smell of steel and sweat as Haurchefant leaned in to hold him close. The gentle melding of Venice’s lips against his skin trying to mend what could not be healed. His mother’s resigned sorrow, her dark hair framing her face like a widow’s veil. The Fury’s luminescent light begging him to carry on against the crushing darkness.

Without warning, the colourless void turned into a familiar chapel with a solitary figure at its centre; therein was the sight of a young woman on her knees, arms clamped in irons, a beautiful Garlean maiden hiding her third eye with tufts of pale blond hair, awaiting her gruesome fate without fear.

She looked over at him, “My lord.”

When a man was in love, he was liable to make foolish decisions. He alone had the power to release her. But playing that card came with a steep price. His enemy would know how far he was willing to go, would know he had no other options. If he got it wrong, all his plans would be for naught. The risk was worth the reward.

\---

“Lord Aymeric,” Lucia’s voice again, louder, stern.

He tried lifting his head but his mind was clouded by an impenetrable fog. A cramp in his neck, the uncomfortable pinching of his cuirass, a cloak wrapped tighter than it needed to be, all made waking up take far more effort than it should have done.

“Wake up!” she bellowed for a third time, slamming her hands against the desk.

An ink well teetered and rolled, he reached to grab it but it toppled over out of his grasp, shattering to the floor, dark splatters left on the corner of the fine oak. While he was relieved that the streaks of ink had missed an industrious tower of parchment, his instincts told him he was under threat. He palmed the pommel of his sword, seeking reassurance that it was close by.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, flying to his feet. A mistake, she was at eye level then, livid and unwilling to back down.

“You’ve been here all night haven’t you. Third time this week,” she tutted, her face only a couple of ilms from his.

He blinked first, she sighed and stood at attention while he tried to make sense of where he was, eventually settling back down against the chair with his cloak in the proper position. Had it really been three times? The tower of parchment was the same size as the last time he had looked at it, he didn’t know how he expected the work to do itself while he was trapped in some self-created delusional hellscape.

“It’s morning then? Would you fetch some tea please?”

“Get it yourself, I’m not your servant.”

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, the room was still dark so it couldn’t have been late morning. Perhaps she hadn’t slept well either, given her incongrible attitude.

“What have I done to upset you so?” he asked delicately, checking the desk to make sure no other objects were about to be broken from her rage.

“It’s what you haven’t been doing,” she countered.

“That is precisely why I stayed late. There is so much to do and I thought I’d try to get ahead of it all.”

“If you were leading from the front, you wouldn’t be behind.”

He was fully awake by then. Her words cut deep, as if she had been the one to plunge the butcher’s blade into his chest. Without even meaning to, one hand dropped to shield his weak point from any further blows that might come. His adrenaline had not gone down and neither had her anger. Suddenly he felt as if he was on the defence, backed into a corner against his will.

“Speak plainly, I do not have the luxury of time to dance around your complaints. I have a city to run after all.”

“Do you? Or do you mean shirk more responsibilities towards Ser Handeloup and myself. Because you’ve hardly been keeping pace with the rest of us since Venice returned.”

“You have to admit, there has been more than usual to keep abreast of as of late. Plus all of my other duties,” he was trying his best to remain patient but her words were being flung like sharp barbs. He had had no time to prepare for an argument and he’d be damned if anyone would usurp him in his own office, nevermind try to take a shot at Venice when she was not present, “What of you and Lord Artoirel? How is that any different?”

“Our work ethic hasn’t been sacrificed for the sake of personal indulgences.” Another twist of the knife already lodged deep within, he could not abide by her insolence any longer.

“How dare you!” he shouted loudly enough that she took a couple of steps back in surprise. Her eyes had gone wide with shock as if he had turned into somebody else, he knew his commoner accent had come to the fore by the way his voice broke, “When will you and the rest be satisfied? Everything falls to me, _everything_ ! And you ask for more, always. Pushing. Taking. _Demanding_. Am I not allowed a single moment of happiness?”

“What of mine? You’re so concentrated on pinning something on the Inquisition that you ignore all other leads.”

His focus had been on trying to figure out who had started the anti-Garlean witchhunt but he couldn’t tell her that he’d been spending what little free time he had on clearing her name, it would only alert those who were trying to bring her down.The timing of Venice’s recovery had been a coincidence though he supposed she blamed him for locking her out of the Vault affair in the first place. Recognition and gratitude weren’t necessary, her hostility was a kick in the guts all the same. As if he weren’t straining under enough pressure.

Logic left him then, insubordination the last straw.

“I expect the very best from you, this is how you repay all I’ve done?” His voice continued to climb, echoing throughout the small room.

“Ishgard needs you, I need you,” she shouted back.

“Know your place, Ser Lucia.”

The words were out before he could think on them. Instantly, he regretted their utterance. Though she was a subordinate, she was also his friend trying to regain his focus through well-intended, tough love. But she could not know how bare he was, her strikes had hit flesh not armour. It was no fault of hers that he had been keeping his own counsel. 

“You are not my legatus!”

“I would like your approval and support but I do not require either. You are dismissed.”

She was already to the door before he gave her permission to leave, slamming it with all her might, a burst of noise followed by excruciating silence.

The more he tried to dislodge her from her argument, the more entrenched she would have become, fighting him tooth and nail over what? She had defiance in her eyes, she would not be swayed. The one person who was supposed to be on his side through thick and thin, who had pledged her personal loyalty to him alone, what had he done to deserve her ire? What could he do to regain her trust and respect.

When matters had become too difficult in the past, he had asked for the Scions’ aide but when it came to his personal matters he didn’t know where to begin. The uncertainty was foreign, slowly it was tearing him apart and all he could do was helplessly watch as others suffered for his indecision. His father would not have the opportunity to put things right, he could not afford to get them wrong. In that moment, he could not even bring himself to pray for he was ashamed of hurting someone he cared immensely about. It mattered little that she had thrown the first punch.

At last he understood Estinien’s struggles to find his sense of self while looking on at the carnage he had left behind in his wake. Shattered. Broken. Not entirely whole. What more could he give? He stared wordlessly at the floor, hoping it might rise up and swallow him whole.

A splash of liquid marred his black greaves, followed by another, and another.

\---

He was not interested in the glorious sunrise, he sat with his back to the streaming golds, ruby reds, and blazing oranges, a shadow leaning precariously against the desk, not looking up to greet the newcomer.

“I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

Something was noticeably off about his appearance: he wasn’t wearing blue. A downcast demeanour held him motionless.

“Not even me?”

Arms crossed tight against pitch black armour, his eyes were fixated on the disheveled cloak piled on the ground as if it might conceal a venomous snake ready to strike. The light blue commander sash was draped over the desk as if he no longer deemed himself worthy of the privilege.

“What’s wrong, are you hurt?” Venice asked.

Driven by worry, she ran the short distance to his side, heels clicking loudly against the stone floor. Still he did not raise his head to look at her. She reached for his cheek, he recoiled with reflexive speed, briefly giving her an apologetic glance before resuming his brooding posture. Her stomach hit the floor, an acute sadness hung over him. Healer instincts kicked in as she looked him over for any obvious visible wounds.

“What happened?” she asked patiently, taking a seat next to him.

“This isn’t a good time, Venice. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t see..”

“Cut the bullshit, I want to be here,” she rested a hand against his forearm, not pushing him to engage in anything he didn’t want to do whilst letting him see that she would give him whatever he wished.

A couple of deep breaths, he kept his eyes closed as he spoke,”I have done something reprehensible. I said something horrible to Lucia and she has every right to hate me,” he winced, the words came out but the pain they caused stifled him from saying more.

“I’m sure she doesn’t think any less of you. She’s a big girl, she will forgive you in no time.”

He shook his head, “I told a Garlean woman to know her place. It was the heat of an argument, there’s no excuse. We were already drifting apart with our respective workloads, the timing could not possibly be worse. _What have I done?_ ”

Venice whistled under her breath, she had been on the receiving end of those words before, from Gaius van Baelsar most prominently, but every Garlean was enraged by the insult at some point from a young age. She had began her dissent and subsequent exile because of that singular expression. Aymeric was in great distress and not disillusioned by what he had done, she wouldn’t hold it against him though she could not readily come up with any sympathetic words.

“She’s right,” finally he turned to catch her gaze, big blue eyes rendered red and puffy from excessive crying.

“Right about what?” she reached for his cheek again, he did not shy away.

He watched her out of the corner of his eyes with baited breath. A crooked finger ran over his temples, cleaning up what evidence remained of his tears. Wordlessly, delicately. He attempted to look away but she wouldn’t let him, holding his chin up with two fingers, waiting for him to gather his thoughts.

“I have not been performing at my best,” he began, her fingers dropped in silent peace offering, “Consistently, I have let others down. My fellow knights, the other lords, the citizenry, even the Alliance leaders on occasion. While there has been an inundation of work to get through, you have truly helped lighten that load recently for which I am eternally grateful. However, I fear your presence might be the cause of my struggles. I’ve tried so hard to keep it balanced, to make everyone else happy, but..”

“What about what _you_ need,” she stood up and moved to face him, pushing between his legs, lightly pressing her palms against the tops of his thighs, lowering herself to his level. She leaned in to kiss his cheek, not expecting more to be said. Never had she seen him so distraught, not even after Haurchefant’s death had he let loose the floodgates.

“You should turn in for the day, there’s nothing you can do in this state,” she whispered directly into his ear, “You should eat something, you’re practically shaking with exhaustion.”

“I have no appetite, Venice.”

“Your mind doesn’t but your body still craves sustenance. When is the last time you had any proper rest or a full meal?”

“This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone without.”

He knew better than to make excuses in front of her but he was too drained and fatigued to think straight. She would rectify that, whether he approved or not.

“I’ll do something light, a Hingan broth which will take minimal effort to prepare and consume. Please let me do this much for you. Go home and we’ll sort this out. If anyone gives you any shit, send them to me. I’ll set things right.”

He nodded silently, offering no fight against her. Instead he pulled her in close, arms folded firmly against the small of her back, looking up briefly with a blank expression she could not unravel. She draped her arms around his shoulders as much as his armour allowed and urged him to rest against her chest.  He clutched at her like a strangling weed trying to steal nourishment from a nearby blooming flower, his grip tightening further, the sound of a repressed sniffle, her chin resting against his head, sheltering him from the world.

The cracks were showing, turning into fissures of doubt. To see him so openly upset, her heart faltered, threatening to breakdown, she closed her eyes and threw the sensation to the aether. There was a measure of comfort to be found: when he was in most peril, he knew to whom to seek refuge. Though it pained her greatly to physically sense his inner turmoil, she could endure it. She had to be ready for when he came completely undone.

When he caught her gaze again, his long lashes betrayed none of his emotion aside from the single tear which meandered down the side of his nose. She rubbed at the base of his ears, wondering more she could do to to make him feel whole again. It had not simply been Lucia’s words that cut at him, he had been hurting for much longer.

“Share your burdens with me. I am here. I am here for _you_ ,” she implored.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” his voice shook and trembled. What frightened him most was his own weakness, an eroding sense of control, doubts and regrets vying for relevance. She was sure part of that fear related to her inability to ease his concerns regarding the state of their relationship.

“That makes two of us, we’ll work it out together,” she continued to coddle him, scared that he might catch her crying too.

“If you are to be my shield, then I shall endeavour to be your spear.”

He couldn’t even fall apart without trying to compensate her for the inconvenience.

\---

True to her word, Venice returned from Kugane with a handful of local, Far Eastern ingredients, fully intent on making a light meal but perhaps unable to suppress her spending habits. For that particular evening, she felt it was best to mix in flavours that were more accommodating to the Ishgardian palate, utilising meats and seasonings that were more familiar rather than attempting to be overly ambitious. While she was certain here modest culinary skills were up to the challenge, she wasn’t quite sure if she could do Doman cuisine the justice it deserved, nor did the atmosphere feel appropriate for trying out new experiences.

She tried not to let his mood bring her down though she was disappointed with how he maintained his distance: not wanting to unload his worries in front of her or interfere with her work, or so he claimed. Normally when she’d prepare something it would turn into an event, he’d hover around her asking loads of questions or try to make her laugh until it was ready then he’d shower her with compliments and make her feel like she was the centre of his world. Instead, he had retreated to the solitude in the study, presumably to do battle with quill and parchment, writing out whatever was still ailing his mind. She hoped the effort would free some of the tension that had coiled around him since earlier in the day; if that’s what he needed to do to unwind, then she was all for it.

The meal itself was unremarkable, he complimented her efforts merely out of habit. She could not decide if the miso had mixed well with the gamey texture of the dhalmel meat, or if the thin, long noodles had been the right choice, but it wasn’t the worst thing either of them had ever eaten. His lack of a solid opinion didn’t encourage her try the experiment again for awhile.

Dutifully, she kept the conversation moving, speaking at great length about her recent exploits with Estinien which managed to stir some genuine interest. Other topics were met with that neutral look he afford to subjects he wasn’t ready to reveal his thoughts on, whether because he had none or because they were too controversial for the conversation at hand. Usually he saved his political tricks for his colleagues, remaining open to her.

Again, she was marginally put out that he didn’t seem to notice she was right there in front of him. His mind was cluttered with many things, not all relating to the events regarding Lucia, she could not force him to discuss what had ensnared his entire focus. Nonetheless, she would keep trying to give him the relaxation that he required, his stubbornness was not altogether different from Estinien and she had gotten through to him with enough persistence.

People had to know they were cared about, especially when they were unwilling to ask for the help they so obviously needed.

When she offered to lay down with him, he was far more receptive. He watched quietly as she moved closer, expectantly with one arm outstretched so that she could be held close once settled. Leaning next to his side of the bed, she kissed him on the forehead then took up the proffered spot, curling up on her side while he remained stretched out in full on his back.

The bed was wide enough for multiple people, way too generous for one man. They gravitated towards its centre in silence. He planted a light kiss on the back of her neck but otherwise they did very little aside from enjoy the warmth of being in each others’ arms. As he let calm overtake him, his breathing began to slow. She held his hand and waited for him to decide what should come next.

“I’m sorry, I’m no good to you tonight,” he said with a sigh, kissing her shoulder, tightening his grip around her midsection as if it was the best he could provide.

“You’re always good to me,” she corrected him.

He paused, letting go of her hand in favour of rubbing her side, never daring to go below the layer of fabric that separated her top from her smooth skin, not feeling as though he had earned the right. She did not pressure him or change positions to indicate what she wanted, her entire purpose for being there had been to take care of him, not the other way around. However, what her mind told her to do and what her body craved were not entirely the same, she did her utmost to suppress her own desires for his sake.

“My life is not my own, it never has been. Long ago I accepted this truth. But now? With you here? I want to give you all of me, you deserve no less. I don’t know where to begin, how can I give what I do not possess?”

She twisted around awkwardly to not make him move his arms, turning to face him with a wide smile, “We don’t have to do this now, there is never any pressure between us. There will be plenty of opportunities, ones where we are both in good cheer..”

“I didn’t mean..” he looked down, avoiding her gaze, then rested his chin against her shoulder while searching for the words. They embraced for several long seconds before she broke the silence.

“You’re alright, Blue. Or at least, you will be. Let’s start over shall we? I didn’t get to do what I meant to when I came to the Congregation.”

“That was my fault, once more,” he cut her off dryly.

“No more of that,” she warned him playfully, stealing a brief kiss upon his lips, the frown fading ever so slightly. She pulled away and reached into one of the interior pockets of her jacket which lay sprawled at the end of the bed, produced a beaded object, and pressed it into his hands.

“Well, I’m not sure if this cheer you up or not..”

“A rosary?” He definitely wasn’t expecting that, the quizzical expression quickly gave way to intrigue.

“Aye, I crafted it myself using polished down aether crystals. I purposely chose ones from regions close to Ishgard. I promise you on my honour as a Scion that their summoning potential has been been made inert. And don’t worry, it has been properly blessed by an ordained priest and everything.”

“Would that I could have seen how that conversation transpired.” A faint smile crossed his lips as he held the object up for a thorough inspection, cascading a rainbow of colours across the bedroom. He laughed at the splendor, momentarily caught off guard by the wondrous sight.

“I’ve been working on a lot of crafting skills lately,” she began to explain, “And I’ve been racking my brain for a suitable gift to give you. It had to be the type of object you could hold onto when I am not here. Something both symbolic and practical that would suit your style. Plus, I noticed your current one was looking a bit worn out.”

“Venice, my current one has been with me since I was a child. It has immense sentimental value,” he hesitated, “But you are right, it has been falling apart more frequently and it’s not always convenient to have it mended.”

“So do you like it? I know it’s not perfect but I thought you might like pieces found in my travels and maybe it might remind you that there’s more of the world out there. It’s not exactly the same as joining me on my journey, I hope it’s enough..”

“It’s absolutely beautiful, I’ve never seen one quite like it. Thank you so much, I can tell you spent a lot of time and love on this object.”

As he ran his hand over the piece of decadent jewelry, she pointed out the various materials and methods used in its construction. Details like the strong alloy of the titanium chain which connected the rounded down crystals as well as the locations where she found different colours. The strangest orange ones came from Azys Lla, the blues from Coerthas, the greens from the Sea of Clouds  He asked a variety of questions which she eagerly answered.

The pendant at the centre of the piece was the component that had brought her the most pride and frustration to create. As it was a holy object, ornamentation was supposed to be kept to a minimum but she couldn’t help giving it a little bit of extra attention. A cloudy larimar jewel had been carefully inlaid with a detailed depiction of Ishgard, the natural white swirls behaving like clouds that looked as if they were moving around the fortified cityscape. It gave the illusion of a three dimensional object held within a round casing, much like a snowglobe without an obvious border imprisoning the scene. The painted technique she had utilised had been shown to her in Othard, several attempts at replicating the image to her high level of satisfaction had been made. On the backside, she had carved the common Halone motif of three spears, hoping that to the layman observer the piece would maintain some of its traditional modesty.

“Only the best for you.”

“It is exquisite, nobody has ever given me something so thoughtful. So personalised. You have truly outdone yourself and I fear a thank you just isn’t enough to convey my appreciation.”

“I accept payment in other forms,” she laughed, nuzzling against his chest.

He wrapped the chain carefully and placed it in a small wooden box in the top draw of the nightstand then rejoined her embrace. With the warmth of the moment waning, Venice took the first tentative steps towards addressing his woes.

“The hardest lesson for any healer to learn is that you can’t save everyone. Despite all your best efforts, it can not be done. I know it’s hard, not intervening, watching them struggle to do what’s right and when they get it wrong, you just want to scream and do everything for them, on your own. But you cannot. You are one man.

You can’t keep this up, taking the blame, apologizing for things you didn’t do. It’s not sustainable, you’ll burn yourself out and then what? All you can do is watch, help them when they fall, but they _have_ to fall first. Otherwise to take control, even for purely compassionate reasons, will make you no different than the man you don’t want to be.

I know it hurts, you care so much for everyone and they care for you, but I cannot watch this self-destructive behaviour indefinitely. I can’t just cast Benediction and make everything better again. Neither can you.”

“You’re right about all those things but though I have help, I am so _alone_. That’s the hardest part, not the failure to save everyone,” his honesty was never unexpected but the rawness of it, tugged hard at her heartstrings.

“Maybe I am a distraction for you after all..”

“No!” he repositioned, his forehead to hers, strong hands clutching for her shoulders, “No, you are not. You are what I need, you are what I want for myself.”

Her fingers ran along the back of his head, through his dark hair, her heart still aching for his plight. Finally, he had answered the question from their first dinner, where it had all begun. Wasn’t he due her response as well?

“What are we going to do? What are we even doing in regards to each other, we must lay it out openly..” her chest hurt, her mind faltered to find the words. To make a declaration then and there, when he was so exposed, it wouldn’t have done him any favours.

“Why can’t things continue as they have?”

“It’s not conventional. What if one of us developed feelings for somebody else? We’ve not established any parametres.”

“I only want you.”

“Right now, maybe. But what if. Take Estinien for example..”

“Estinien presents a unique set of circumstances. As our mutual friend, he needs us and we need him. He’s not exactly a ringing endorsement for infidelity.”

She licked her lips and begged time to hold still. It was not a conversation she was prepared to have, not whilst he was crumbling in her arms from other aches.

“What of Lucia then, is there history there?” she tried another approach.

“Aye,” he said, pulling away as he realised she was going to keep avoiding the topic he craved. “Like most spies, she was trained to use seduction as a viable tactic in the field. While I cannot confirm that her wiles worked upon me or rather other factors converged to make me admire her, lust was certainly the motivation that led me to saving her life. I am mildly embarrassed to admit it. We quickly discovered that our physical urges were not compatible with carrying out our respective duties, however. The entire affair was quite short but it was enough to deepen the strengthen the friendship that arose afterwards. May the Fury forgive what I have done today.”

“How many times has your heart been broken?” Venice whispered, tucking rebellious strands of hair behind his gorgeous, pointed ears.

“It doesn’t matter. There are bigger problems to deal with each day,” he lowered his head and enveloped her with his arms, an aggrieved sigh slipped out, “I’m tired, Venice. Can’t we talk more about this another time?”

“Rest now, Blue. Rest upon me,” she continued to hold him against her chest.

He took her offer to heart, clinging back with all his vim and vigour. Though he was larger physically, he felt small like a child trying to hold onto his mother after a bad dream. She didn’t know what else she could do but soothe his aches, her fingers gingerly pushing through his large obsidian crests, down along the hidden scalp beneath, tracing a winding path, and back again to the top to begin the journey anew.

A cheek nestled against her stomach, arms tucked firm around her sides, she could barely see anything aside from the top of his head. He was poised so that at least one of his ears dug uncomfortably into her belly. Normally she would not have minded but as he pulled in closer, they were like pointed daggers driving towards a vital point, taking turns with every unsettled movement. One hand rubbed his upper back, quietly encouraging him to drift off. Though he said nothing more, he didn’t need to.

The spread of a wet, hot patch of liquid drenched through her tunic’s thin fabric, soaking against her skin. He moved subtly again to further hide his face. It wasn’t all he was hiding from her. She could not force him to share his troubles, all she could do was collect the tears where they fell, her body as an open ewer.

“Venice..love..you..” he muttered incoherently whilst lapsing into a docile, slumbering state.

Her heart lurched, she wanted to say it back but what was the point if he could not hear. She was keenly aware that through her attempts to protect him, she might have been doing more harm than good. Her feelings were known to her but to express them then, when he was descending into the quagmire of his own misfortunes, she would have only done more damage. Tears of her own began to gather, the rising tide. He faced a solo duty that she could not fight for him.

A deep, burdensome sigh left her lips. She gradually moved to lean back against the pillow, still holding the broken knight to her bosom, a strong arm braced around his shaking shoulders. With enough willpower she would be asleep as well, they could face the next day together with their hearts and minds wide open.

“Haurchefant! Haurchefant!” his screams tore her back to consciousness. Again she rubbed his back and shoulders, he lifted his head to look her in the eye. The tears were free flowing, he didn’t know what else to do. A low, haunting whisper, “I failed.”

“You did not! He was protecting me, remember? If anyone deserves the blame, _it is me_ ,” she kissed his forehead over and over. In response, he curled his entire body around her smaller form, tightly like a cannonball, burning himself out as she continued to calm his unrest.

Her own night terrors had stolen her sleep but his were still raw, frequent, powerful and unforgiving. A sinking feeling washed over her, he had not had the time to mourn as she had, she had worked every day to diminish the effects of the mental pain left behind. Though it would never go away entirely, she had taken the first steps towards moving on. How much more was he hanging onto?

When he had given the speech about the children of Ishgard being punished for the mistakes of their forebears, he had not been speaking metaphorically. A sole-survivor, a lonesome leader, an outcast amongst his own kind, crushed too many times by the ones he loved. She had slain false gods, uncovered brutal truths, liberated nations, but could she free a single man from himself? Not all wounds could be healed.

“You hide so much from everyone, including yourself. But with me, you are released from your self-imposed prison. Would that you could feel so liberated all the time,” she whispered directly into his ear before shifting position again, hoping the message would filter into his lucid thoughts.

Venice then looked heavensward and tried something new: “Fury help him, I know he will not ask but surely You can entertain another’s plea. Spare him this suffering, please. He’s done enough for You, for everyone! Let him rest. Let him know the peace he has delivered to others. In exchange for his freedom, I will do anything You ask of me. This I swear on my own life.”

_Hold on, my love. I will not desert you. Not now, not ever._

 


End file.
